


Painterly

by avintagekiss24



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal Sex, Artist Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dom Steve Rogers, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Gay Bucky Barnes, Gay Steve Rogers, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, Humor, Jock Bucky Barnes, Kitchen Sex, Lesbian Natasha Romanov, M/M, Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020, Oral Sex, Roommates, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top Steve Rogers, grumpy steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28016610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avintagekiss24/pseuds/avintagekiss24
Summary: Steve's entire semester hinges on the art project that Bucky just kinda, sorta put a hole in.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 20
Kudos: 348
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020





	Painterly

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for Marvel Reverse Bang 2020, inspired by CapDeady's beautiful art embedded within the fic!
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr @ avintagekiss24

Steve pushes his key into the door, letting out an exhausted breath as he balances his groceries and art supplies against his left hip. He’s had an awful day. His alarm didn’t go off, making him late to class. He of course then left his phone on his nightstand, which meant he missed the phone interview for the job that he desperately needs since his financial aid is drying up. It started to rain during his walk from campus to the art store and he was, you guessed it, without an umbrella. 

His day is finally almost over - two more minutes and he’ll be in his sweats, face down in the pillows, drool dribbling out of his mouth as he sleeps the rest of this horrible day away. He pushes through the threshold, practically _feeling_ his grey sweats on his legs when he stops dead in his tracks. His shoulders slump. His eyes close and his breath exits his lungs through his mouth deeply _and_ slowly. 

A pair of dirty, mud-caked cleats sit right just inside of the door. A hoodie and t-shirt are thrown over the back of the couch. Music blasts from deep in the loft apartment, while the TV plays in the living room. Steve glances to his right into the kitchen and ticks his jaw as he gazes at dirty cups and plates lining the counter. All of the chaos means only one thing. 

“Hey Stevie.”

Steve steps over the cleats and shuts the door hard, locking it slowly, “Don’t call me Stevie.”

A chuckle floats towards him as the dark haired Bucky Barnes moves into view. He pulls a tank top over his bare torso before he shrugs into his baseball uniform, buttoning his shirt quickly, “That’s right, that’s right. You hate being called Stevie, I got it.”

“Do you?” Steve quips as he moves into the kitchen, placing his bags on the bar.

“I do, I just… forget. Listen,” Bucky starts, grabbing the hoodie from the back of the couch and throwing it over his head, “Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll do them when I get back from the game, okay?”

Steve knows that in fact, Bucky will _not_ do them when he gets back after the game. He never does, because, well, _he forgets_. Steve lets out a breath while shaking his head, turning on the sink and grabbing the yellow sponge that sits on the edge of the window seal. 

Bucky grabs his cleats and plops down on the couch, shoving his feet into them before he starts to tie them up, “Oh, and I’m having a few guys over afterward.”

“So you’re having a party?”

“I wouldn’t say _party_ , per se, just,” Bucky shrugs as he stands, shoving his hands into his hoodie, “A little get together if you will.”

Steve glances over his shoulder, answering flatly, “So a party.”

“Tomato, tomahto my friend,” Bucky says, grabbing his bag and the bat that leans up against the wall besides the door, “You can invite your friends too. You know, the redhead… um, Nat- Natalie?”

“Natasha.”

“Oh, and that hottie Sam. He is _more_ than welcome at any party of mine.”

Steve rolls his eyes, making a mental note to never invite Sam over again, “Uh, I’ll think about it.” He says slowly, offering an unenthusiastic smile over his shoulder.

Bucky throws open the door and shoots him a finger gun and a wink before he whisks through it, slamming it behind him. As soon as the brunet is gone, Steve drops his hands to his side and lets his head fall back on his shoulders. He groans loudly as he closes his eyes again. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with a house full of drunk baseball jocks all night. He just wants to sleep, and work on his art project with _minimal_ interruptions this weekend. 

But, it doesn’t seem like that’ll happen - at least tonight. 

Steve finishes the dishes and puts up his groceries - separating _his_ stuff from _Bucky’s_ stuff, knowing full well that Bucky will eat his hot pockets and yogurt regardless of where he puts them. He unpacks his new art supplies and moves through the living room to where his easel and art box sit next to the bay windows. He glances out of the windows and out over the small lawn and lake that sits at the back of the complex. The cityscape is laid out far in the distance as the sun rays make the rippling water of the lake glimmer and shine. 

He and Bucky may be complete opposites in every which way that two people can be, but this view (and the nominal rent that Bucky makes him pay) is what makes it all worth it. He knows what it’s like to be cramped in a dorm, sharing a bathroom with twelve other dudes, so when he saw Bucky’s ad on Craigslist, he jumped at the opportunity. 

He honestly thought Bucky was insane when they first met - or, at the very least, he was a serial killer. Who rents a thirty two hundred square foot loft, in the prime downtown district, for three hundred bucks a month? A serial killer, that’s who. He still remembers it like it was yesterday, staring back into the deepest, big blue eyes, cast against creamy skin and dark hair. 

_“Three hundred is all you want a month? Total?”_

_Bucky shrugs, running his hand through his hair, “My mom covers everything but six hundred so, yeah. We can split that.”_

_Steve glanced around the spacious, fully furnished apartment before he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “No water, no cable, no nothing? Three hundred flat is all you want?”_

_“Yeah man. Listen, you can have the master too… there’s too much light in there for my taste.”_

Too much light, he said. The biggest bedroom in the joint, and there’s too much light. Bucky Barnes was, and is still, certifiable. 

Steve pulls his phone out of his pocket and hits Natasha’s name before he turns down the blaring television and puts in on speaker as he opens up his large art bin. It rings twice, before her sing-song salutation fills his ears, “Steven Grant, how are you baby?”

Steve scrunches up his face as he laughs, “What the fuck is that about?”

“What is what about?”

“ _How are you baby?_ The fuck you so happy about?”

She sighs happily into the phone, “Oh, you know, it’s just a beautiful day to be alive.”

“You just got laid, huh?”

“ _Yes_ ,” She answers quickly, “And it was _incredible_.”

“What’s her name?”

“Wanda Maximoff. I think I’m going to marry her.”

Steve laughs as he rearranges his supplies, making room for his new brushes and paints, “You literally say that every time you have sex with somebody.”

“I do, but I _mean_ it this time.”

“Okay,” he laughs again, “You also say that every time too.”

“Shut up,” she giggles, “There has to be a reason you’re calling me, and not just to kill my post-sex joy.”

Steve smiles gently as he sends his eyes towards the large, half painted canvas that sits on his easel. He tilts his head as his eyes drift around it, squinting a little as he critiques each little brush stroke, every line, every shadow. 

“Steve? _Helloooo... Steveeee._ ”

Natasha's voice floods his senses again, bringing him back into the present. He blinks, still not taking his eyes off of his final project, due in just two weeks time, “Sorry, I uh, my roommate is throwing a small _get together_ ,” he says, curling his fingers into quotations, “Tonight and has allowed me to invite some of my friends as well.”

“God,” Natasha laughs, Steve practically hearing her roll her eyes, “I’m surprised you haven’t killed him yet.”

“I contemplate it everyday.”

“So, you’re saying you want me to come and be your buffer?”

“No, I’m saying I want you to come and sit in my room with me and watch Ratched while he and his meathead friends get the cops called on themselves.”

“You need to quit being so anti-social.”

“I’m not being anti-social, I'll be with you.”

She scoffs, but titters seconds later, “Want me to bring anything?”

“Beer,” Steve laughs, “Oooh, and taco’s.”

“I can swing by and pick up Sam from work. I think he gets off around seven.”

Steve shakes his head, “Nope, no Sam.”

“Why?”

“I will not have my best friend joining Bucky fuckin’ Barnes’ walk of shame.” Natasha snorts loudly, “I mean it! You should see the parade of men I’ve had to endure on Saturday mornings. No, I won’t have it. I love Sam too much.”

“Okay, okay, okay, I get it. What time, blondie?”

“Eh,” Steve sighs, “I’m gonna take a nap, so like, eight? Nine?”

“Sounds good. See ya in a few.”

Steve taps his finger against the glass surface of his phone before he balls his fist and rests his chin against it. He tilts his head again as he glances over the canvas in front of him. It’s missing something. He can’t really put his finger on _what_ it’s missing, but it’s missing _something_. He grabs his sketchbook and flips through the pages, skimming the loose, quick sketches of the art student he pays fifty bucks a session to draw. 

It feels flat. The lighting is off. He paid too much attention to the little details, and not enough to the bigger ones but, he doesn’t have time to start over and his _entire_ semester is hinging on this. A deep yawn suddenly pushes its way through his mouth, making him close his eyes and stretch his tired, achy muscles. He’ll worry about the painting tomorrow - right now, it’s time for a much needed, much deserved (in his view anyway) nap.

\---

“You know,” Natasha starts, taking a bite of her taco, “If it weren’t for all the racism and sexism, I’d totally wanna live in the ‘40s.”

Steve takes a swig of his beer, not taking his eyes off of the TV, “You’d wanna be giving out lobotomies to priests, huh?”

“And look chic while doing it, babe. Look at that dress she’s got on, it’s gorgeous!”

A burst of loud laughter floats into the room that Steve and Natasha are in, quickly followed by the radio blasting heavy metal being turned up to an obnoxious level. Steve rolls his eyes and grabs the remote, angrily pushing his finger down onto the volume button to turn up Nurse Ratched, and drowned out his roommate’s party. 

It started out quiet enough, just Bucky and three of his teammates when Natasha knocked on the door, tacos and beer in hand. A few hours later, it’s turned into a full on _party_. In fact, there were so many people showing up to the apartment that Bucky just decided to leave the front door wide open after a while so people could come and go— getting up from his spot on the couch every five minutes was starting to become a _hassle_. 

The music got louder and louder, the laughter and random thuds and thumps got more frequent and here they are three hours later— probably ten or fifteen minutes away from getting the cops called. Usually, Steve would have his headphones on, both pillows over his head as he tried to ignore the moans of Bucky’s latest conquest piercing the walls but he's too full and a little too tipsy to care tonight. 

Natasha is asleep next to him, her head resting on his shoulder as she snores lightly. Steve is also well on his way, his breathing getting deeper and deeper with each pass, his head rolling slowly to the left as he gives into the pull of sleep. He teeters on the edge— half awake, half asleep— the sound of the tv just fading out when he hears a loud _thwump_ , followed by a chorus of gasps and then curse words. Then, there’s Bucky’s muffled voice— quick, heavy footsteps.

_"Fuck! I told you to stay away from that!"_

The words for some reason register in Steve’s brain. He sits up with a jolt and a sharp inhale. Natasha groans beside him before she rolls over onto her side and tucks her hands underneath the pillow that holds her head. Steve blinks towards the door as the apartment is now eerily quiet.

He throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands, making a quick line towards the door. He throws it open to find Bucky standing on the other side, his hand outstretched and balled in a fist, as if he was about to knock.

“Steve.”

“What happened?” 

“Just,” Bucky takes a breath, running his hand through his hair, “Okay, listen.”

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen this look on Bucky before. They’ve been living together for a while but for some reason, he isn’t familiar with this— nervousness? Is that what this is? Bucky’s face is flushed, his cheeks red, eyes wide and shifty. He rubs the back of his neck as he stammers, then runs his hand through his hair, gripping the strands hard as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. 

“Why are you being weird? What’s going on?” Steve asks, his voice heavy and still laced with sleep.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, his eyes darting back towards the living room, but he doesn’t say anything. Steve steps just beyond the threshold, closing the space between him and Bucky and peers in the direction of the spacious room, finding at least twenty pairs of eyes on him, shock written on all of their faces. 

“Okay, before you blow your top, just, just hear me out.” Bucky starts, holding out his hands, “It was an accident.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” Steve brushes past him and takes a few steps to his right, “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything— hang on a second, let me just—”

As Steve moves deeper into the living room, the crowd of people part like the red sea. Bucky stumbles behind him, grabbing at his arm, stammering over his words. A few more people shuffle out of the way as Steve stalks towards them, their beers and red solo cups grasped tight in their hands. That’s when Steve sees it. That’s when he stops dead in his tracks. 

“Steve,” Bucky starts, “Dude, I’m… shit.”

There’s a hole. There is a giant _hole_ in the middle of his canvas— that is now also on the floor. Steve just stares at it, his lips parted, chest heaving as his arms stay limp at his sides. He blinks at it as his heart and stomach fall to his feet. Six weeks. Six weeks, two hundred dollars, and his entire semester down the drain. 

“Steve,” Bucky says gently, never seeing Steve this… calm? “I’m sorry.”

Steve laughs. That’s all he can really do he’s so angry. He turns slowly, a dumbfounded look on his face as he shrugs, shaking his head and blinking furiously, “You’re sorry? That’s it? You’re _sorry_?”

“Listen man, it wasn’t me. I went back into my room for just a second, and… I mean, we can fix it, right? I can, I’ll pay for it, I’ll—”

“No, you can’t _fix_ it!” Steve shouts, his anger finally bubbling over, “I spent weeks on that! That’s my entire grade for the semester, Bucky!” 

Bucky darts his eyes around the room, “There’s still time, we’ve got like two and half weeks left.”

Steve scoffs, threading his fingers through his hair as the realization finally sinks in on him, “Fuck!” he shouts, closing his eyes, “I’m gonna lose my scholarship.”

“No, no you won’t.” Bucky reassures him, “You won’t lose it, we can fix this— I, I can fix it.”

Steve’s eyes drift away from the slightly shorter brunet man in front of him and focus in on the floor. He’s gonna fail this art class, which is going to tank his GPA, which will get his scholarship revoked. He’ll end up couch surfing between Sam and Natasha as he’s forced to pick up as many shifts as he can at his shit, part time job at the hole in the wall restaurant that is his only means of support. 

His life is over.

All because of Bucky goddamn Barnes. 

He snaps his eyes back to Bucky as he continues to yammer on, but he doesn’t hear a goddamn word. His feet just start moving, pushing him past Bucky again, shoulder checking him hard as he goes by. He vaguely hears his name being called as he moves back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Natasha jumps at the sound, her green eyes wide as she shoots up into a sitting position. 

Bucky knocks at the door, calling for Steve before he stomps off seconds later, his voice raising as starts to usher people out of the apartment. 

“What happened? What’s going on?” Natasha asks quickly, snapping her head towards Steve, “What’s all the noise for?”

“Oh nothing,” Steve shrugs, “That’s just the sound of my life ending.”

\---

Steve doesn’t sleep a wink.

He just lays on his bed, fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling as the moon disappears and the sun rises. Natasha tells him that she wishes she could stay, but she’s got to be at work by eight am and if she’s late again, she won’t have a job to go back to. Then they’ll both end up on Sam’s couch. So she leaves around six thirty am, and Steve is left to stare at the ceiling all by his lonesome, having to seriously stop himself from getting up and punching Bucky square in his rather perfect jaw.

Steve doesn’t do that. He doesn’t get up and punch Bucky in his jaw. He just lays there, contemplating his very few options that don’t include robbing a bank and going on the run. He hears movement after a while— footsteps past his door, and then keys jingling. He holds his breath, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw as anger builds up in his body again, his skin automatically heating up.

He only relaxes when the front door opens and then closes swiftly. He pushes out the breath that he wasn’t aware that he was holding and opens his eyes again, resuming staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t have to rob a bank. He could always just become a stripper. 

\---

Hours have passed. Steve tried to sleep, and maybe accomplished an hour of it, before he drug his heavy body out of his bedroom and into the bathroom. He took a long shower, his head hung low as he let the steaming water pelt down on his tight, knotted shoulders. He shuffled into an old white t-shirt and some sweatpants before he moved out into the kitchen, grabbing one of his peach yogurt cups and a bottle of water.

You should always eat before you go die.

He stares at his ruined canvas from across the room as he sucks on the spoon absentmindedly. It’s been placed back on the easel, all the rest of his art supplies arranged neatly underneath it. Normally, he’d kick the crap out of anybody who touched his stuff, but he guesses whoever did it had good intentions. 

Steve pushes his eyes around the painting, tilting his head as he dips the spoon back into his yogurt and lifts it slowly back to his lips, dragging his tongue along the bottom of it as he sucks the creamy, slightly tart yogurt into his mouth. Now that he’s looking at it, really looking at it, the hole might be the _best_ thing about the painting. The rough edges where someone’s fist or elbow went right through it adds a little character to the whole thing. 

He chews on a chunk of peach as he blinks slowly. He’s not sure why he went with that cool color pallet— he hates it. It’s boring. His brush strokes are tense and forced. The angles and shadows are all wrong. His muse is, well, _ugly_ ; or at least Steve made him ugly with a nose that just isn’t right and a huge, stupid forehead and almost no neck at all. 

Shit. Maybe Bucky did him a favor afterall. 

He hears keys in the door, and then a soft thud as Bucky puts his hip against it to get the heavy piece of wood to pop open. Steve watches him back into the apartment with a tight jaw and pursed lips, Bucky’s hands full of bags and something odd shaped. Steve leans back in his chair as Bucky mumbles something into the phone that's squeezed between his shoulder and his ear, his voice slightly irritated.

“I’m fine mom… _yes_ , he’s still here… he is! I didn’t do anything to him, money’s just a little tight this month, that’s all… yes mother… _yes mother_!... Mom, I talked to Becca a few days ago, she’s fine… yes, okay… yes… I gotta go… okay, okay, love you too… bye.” he drops his shoulder, letting the phone fall into his open palm before he slides the thin device into his back pocket, “ _Fuck_.”

“Morning,” Steve says dryly, taking a little pleasure in watching Bucky jump out of his skin, “You’re up early.”

“Steve, shit man,” Bucky huffs, closing his eyes as he clasps his hand over his pecs, “You scared the shit out of me. What you doin’?”

Steve points at his yogurt cup as he scrapes the spoon along the edges, collecting the last few remnants, “Breakfast.”

Bucky clears his throat nervously and runs his hand through his long dark hair before he sweeps it up off of his neck, pulling it up and fixing it into a messy bun with the rubbing band around his wrist, “Listen, I know you’re pissed,” he starts, taking a few tentative steps into the kitchen where Steve sits, “But I’ve got it worked out, we’ll get this fixed.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighs heavily, his eyelids fluttering, “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I mean it. I feel terrible, I shouldn’t have had all those people over. I should have kept a closer eye on your stuff.”

“No, no, it’s… it’s my fault. I should have put my stuff in my room. It’s not up to you to keep a watch over it.”

Bucky blinks back at him, unsure of whether or not to trust this newfound forgiveness and calm. It’s a stark difference from the flushed face and raised voice he dealt with the night before. He’s a little scared if he’s being perfectly honest, he always thought Steve moonlighted as a serial killer. 

He clears his throat again and points over his shoulder at the bags that he dropped on the couch, “I got up early and took some pictures of your painting. I went down to that art store, you know, the one on 2nd and Commerce. They said that there’s not really anything they can do to fix it, but they showed me all of these really great supplies.”

Bucky hurries back over the couch and grabs the bags before he moves into the kitchen. He starts unloading new sets of brushes, new tubes of paint, pencils and charcoals, “I bought like, everything they showed me. Three hundred dollars worth— oh, I got three more canvases for you too. They’re still down in my car.”

“Bucky, you didn’t— you didn’t have to do that.” Steve swallows, his eyes going large.

“No, I wanted to. I also called my mom, and she’s gonna give me the money to cover the six hundred for rent next month, so I was thinking, maybe, you could take some time off work so you can redo your project. And, you can borrow my car, whenever you want, instead of taking the bus to go see, um, what’s his name? The guy you painted.”

Steve closes his eyes again, shaking his head as the rushed flurry of words falls over him, “Pietro, but that’s not—”

“Or, you can invite him over here. I can go stay with some buddies if I’m gonna be in the way.”

Steve holds up hands, scrunching his face a little, “Bucky, just stop. Take a breath, please.” Steve takes one himself, “Listen, I appreciate all of this, I really do, but, _it’s fine_. You don’t have to do all of this.”

“I want to. I don’t want you to lose your scholarship, not because of me and my stupid ass friends. I want to make this right, Steve. You’ve been a great roommate, you always put up with my shit, and I’m such a jerk and—”

“Buck,” Steve laughs gently, “You’re not taking a breath.”

Bucky slumps his shoulder as he smirks, rolling his eyes, “Sorry. I do that a lot. I ramble. My mom calls me motormouth.” 

“That’s apt.”

“It really is.”

Maybe it’s the yogurt, or the sleep deprivation, but Steve kind of feels better. He can tell Bucky isn’t as big of an asshole as he thought, he’s actually trying to make this right and he genuinely feels bad. That’s all Steve could really ask for. 

“I think you kind of helped me out a bit, if I’m being perfectly honest.” Steve smiles that crooked smile that Natasha is always gaping about, “I kinda hate that painting. It’s not me and every stroke shows it.”

Bucky nods slowly, his hands falling to his hips, “I don’t know what that means, but you’re not strangling me, so I’m going to take it as a good thing.”

Steve laughs— and it’s genuine, surprising Bucky even more, “I don’t _like_ it. I wasn’t happy with it and because of this, now that I’m really thinking about it, _fortunate_ situation, I get to start over. It’ll be tough, but, I think this is kind of for the best. Maybe I can paint something that I actually like this time around.” He points at Bucky playfully, “I will take you up on that not working for a while offer, though.”

“My pleasure. I can always bilk my mom outta money. I’m her only son, and I’m the baby, so.” he shrugs, brushing some of the loose strands of hair out of his face, “I think she was just trying to make me _financially responsible_ ,” he puts the words in air quotes, “by making me cover some of the rent.”

Steve nods slowly, “That makes a lot of sense, you being the baby, I mean.”

Bucky smiles, a real wide, bright smile. One that reaches his eyes— makes them sparkle in the natural sunlight and makes the little crinkles at the corners of them more defined. His nose scrunches a little and something twinges deep in Steve’s stomach. _Oh no_ , he thinks to himself, _Bucky’s attractive_.

“If you want, you can invite Pietro over tonight. I’d be happy to order you guys some dinner and fuck off so you can work in peace.”

Steve shakes his head as he stands, throwing the empty yogurt cup in the trash before he tosses his spoon in the sink with a loud _clang_. He turns back to Bucky and leans against the counter, pressing his weight into his palms as his fingers curl over the edge, “Nah, that’s okay. I think I’m gonna choose someone else to study. Natasha, maybe. She won’t have a problem getting naked for me.”

“Oh yeah, she’s beautiful,” Bucky agrees, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I don’t um, I don’t have a problem getting naked.”

Steve snaps his eyes up to Bucky’s. His lips part, trying and failing to come up with something to say. He slams his mouth shut after a second or two, then tries again, but again fails to have any words come out, “You, uh… what? You what now?”

“I don’t have a problem getting naked,” he shrugs, poking out his lips a bit, “I can sit for you.”

“Bucky, you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’ve played sports my entire life, Steve. I’ve been getting naked in front of strange dudes since I was ten.” he laughs, “I’ll do it, if you want me.”

Steve’s mouth hangs again, his eyes wide, “But you have baseball. Right? I mean, sometimes you don’t get home until nine or ten.”

“Last night was our last game, and my last class ends at two fifteen. I should be home around two forty-five, three o'clock from now until April.” he smiles that bright smile that makes his blue eyes sparkle, “I’m all yours.”

This makes Steve nervous for some reason.

_Great._

“Great.”

\---

The first few sessions are… _awkward_ , to say the least. Not for Bucky— no, he was absolutely correct when he said he has no problem getting naked. He stripped down night after night for Steve with absolutely no hesitation. Steve on the other hand? 

Steve had _not_ been paying attention to James Buchanan Barnes. He paraded around the apartment countless times in random stages of dress; shirtless with pants, shirt, no pants, sometimes no pants, no shirt— just tight little boxer briefs when running from his bedroom or bathroom towards the small utility room to pull his clothes out of the dryer, but Steven Grant Rogers was not paying _fucking_ attention. Now that he is— _paying attention_ — he has to swallow really hard to keep his dick from tenting his pants. 

James Buchanan Barnes is an _absolute_ dream. He talks a lot, but Steve kinda likes that. Steve’ll just smile softly as Bucky goes on and on about whatever the fuck, Steve’s eyes bouncing between his canvas and random parts of Bucky’s body as he sketches out his lines. Steve has him perched by the big bay windows, the natural light falling over Bucky’s sinewy, acutely masculine body. 

His shoulders are broad, biceps thick, chest— pecs— carved beautifully. Bucky has a vein, a singular vein that runs the length of his arm and it bulges everytime he moves and Steve is a little embarrassed to count how many times his brain has drifted to think about sinking his teeth into that vein. There’s a six pack, but they aren’t daunting, not super tough or hard looking— kinda soft, just how Steve likes a six pack. A tuft of dark hair, a line really, starts at his belly button and crawls right down underneath the band of his briefs.

Steve runs his wide eyes over that deep v carved into Bucky’s skin at his hips and then traipse them down his sturdy (and when he says sturdy, he means _sturdy_ ) thighs. They’re muscular, those thighs. But they look soft, like his abs, like they’re meant to be sat on. 

Steve isn’t even going to think about the dick imprint. 

Wait— _yes he is_. 

It’s thick, that dick imprint. It’s also huge, another weakness of Steve’s— a brunet with a huge cock. He tries not to focus too much on Bucky’s dick in his sketch on the canvas but, you know, his fingers slip. 

The awkwardness is starting to go away. Steve eventually starts to loosen up and starts to enjoy their sessions. He starts to actually _like_ Bucky, realizes that he isn’t just some dumb jock. Quite the opposite, actually. He has a knack for numbers— wants to be a sports agent. He can rattle off just about anything you need to know about Greek mythology and has an affinity for astrology. 

He also prefers Nsync over the Backstreet Boys, but agrees that _Everybody_ is _the_ best Halloween song ever. 

Steve is painting the canvas in record time. With Pietro, it took him at least six (eight, it took him eight) sessions before he put his brush to the canvas. He obsessed over every pencil line, every little detail— but with Bucky, it only takes three. Three nights of Bucky sitting in front of those long bay windows, the pinks and purples and baby blues of the sky, the orange glow of the setting sun bathing his buttery, soft, imperfectly perfect skin— and Steve’s putting paint to canvas. 

“Am I sitting okay? You need me to move?” Bucky asks, licking that pink bottom lip as he blinks back at Steve.

Steve shakes his head quickly as he drags his brush down the thick canvas, stepping back and tilting his head to eye his work. He flicks his eyes back to Bucky as he mixes a little more flesh color paint, swirling white, yellow, and just a smidge of deep red together.

“Nope, you’re perfect.”

Bucky dips his head as a smile breaks out on his face. The loose strand of hair that never seems to make it up into the messy bun on top of his head slipping along his shoulder before it dangles in front of his face. 

Steve can see the crinkles at the sides of Bucky’s eyes, the bridge of his nose scrunching and he inhales sharply, “Don’t move! Don’t move a muscle!”

Bucky freezes, his eyes going wide as Steve races to the window to grab a fresh canvas. He runs into the kitchen and grabs a barstool, dragging it across the floor, scuffing the wood no doubt. He plops down once he’s in front of Bucky and reaches for a clean brush, loading the bristles with the acrylic paint and just loses himself. 

His eyes bounce between the canvas and Bucky wildly, his hand barely able to keep up with the frantic pace. Steve throws the wider brush down and picks up a thin one, swishing it in the dark brown he’s mixed and pushes it along the gesso coated, stretched canvas, a light scratching sound accompanying his every stroke. His palette knife is the next utensil used. He cuts it through the white paint, collecting a small roll along the edge and drags it along the shoulder of painted Bucky, adding a small highlight. 

Paint gets everywhere; Steve’s hands and forearms, on his pants and shirt. Even a few droplets fling over onto Bucky’s knee. Bucky keeps his blue (sometimes green, icy gray Steve’s noticed) eyes on Steve, a soft small smile growing into another large one. 

“I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“Like what?” Steve answers absentmindedly.

“I dunno, so, _into_ something. You usually look… I don’t know, I can’t really describe it.” Steve smiles but doesn’t say anything, just dips his eyes back to the canvas before skirting them back to Bucky, “It’s kind of a turn on.”

Steve’s hand stops moving on a dime.

He inhales sharply as the words shower over him. He drags his eyes one last time from the canvas up to Bucky’s to find a smirk on his face. Bucky’s head is tilted in such a way; his lips slightly parted, his eyes traveling around Steve’s face and upper body. Steve’s dick twitches. 

He clears his throat and swallows hard, and that’s when Bucky laughs, “Don’t tell me you don’t know how hot you are.” Bucky gestures around them, “This just makes you hotter.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” is all Steve can muster, his words breathy and light.

“Are you fucking kidding _me_? I’ve had my eye on you since you moved in, Rogers. You’re so fucking uptight all the time, I couldn’t even tell if you were gay or not.”

Steve nods out of shock, “Definitely gay.”

Bucky chuckles and it’s like a shot right to Steve’s cock. Bucky takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before he rubs his large hand on the back of his neck, squeezing his shoulder gently, “Can I come take a look? I need to stretch.”

Steve just nods— _like an idiot_. His mouth drops open as Bucky stands from the barstool, rolling his shoulders before he stretches his long right arm across his chest. He rolls his head on his neck, real slow like, his mouth going slack and Steve is _buzzing_. Bucky is nothing but flexing muscles and a taut, thick neck, a kissable, teeth sinkable neck and throat.

He pads over to Steve, a confident saunter, a hint of mischief in his eye as he peeks Steve’s eyes drop to his crotch in these ridiculous green briefs. He steps in front of him and turns to face the easel as Steve stumbles off of the barstool to give him some room. Steve lets his eyes fall down Bucky’s back, his teeth biting into his bottom lip as he breathes in Bucky’s husky scent. Like a pheromone, thick and strong, making Steve’s head swim. 

“This looks great, Stevie.” Bucky muses, tilting his head back and forth, “Fuck, you are crazy talented.”

Steve eyes dart to the crook of Bucky’s neck again as his thick fingers wrap around it, squeezing again, “Th-thanks. You— you okay?”

“Yeah, just a little stiff from sitting so long.”

Steve goes all hot, his chest and neck and face flushing red as he watches Bucky dip the tips of his fingers into the red paint to his left. His breathing goes shallow, his flesh vibrating with the sudden lust rushing through his veins as Bucky drags his fingers over his shoulder again, this time leaving a streak of red behind.

“I’ve always had a thing for artists. I can barely draw a circle but,” he dips his fingers again, this time in the blue, “I’ve always had a deep respect for the arts— takes a really special person to capture someone’s likeness, you know?”

His voice is soft, smooth and deep as he slashes color across his peachy skin. Steve’s heart is in his throat, his breath hard and audible— his fingers _itching_ to touch. He takes a step closer as Bucky continues to mumble, stretching his neck to the right as his fingers push green paint around his hip. His voice changes though. No longer smooth and deep. It hitches as Steve presses his chest against his back. The octave bobs up and down when Steve wraps his mammoth hands around his waist. 

“You think you could teach me how to paint, Stevie?” he asks as his head tips backward, his face tilted towards the ceiling, eyes closed, mouth hanging as Steve’s hot lips press against his neck. 

A shaky hum passes through Steve’s chest as Bucky’s thick fingers dig up into his blonde hair. Steve cups Bucky’s hard dick before he rubs it gently, so gently as he drags his lips down the curve of Bucky’s neck and shoulder, “I could try, Buck.”

Bucky turns his face towards Steve’s and that’s all the permission he needs. Steve kisses him hard and deep; his tongue licking into Bucky’s wet mouth, slipping along the roof before it massages the velvet of Bucky’s tongue. He eats up Bucky’s small noises as he pushes his hand underneath the elastic band of his briefs to grab that long, thick, rock hard cock. 

Bucky pushes his chest forward, inhaling sharp as light laughter falls from his mouth, “Damn Stevie, that’s uh, that’s quite a grip you got there.”

Steve strokes him slow, base to tip, the pads of his fingers sweeping over Bucky’s wet cockhead. He smiles against the side of Bucky’s face as a shiver passes through him, curse words slipping out between Bucky’s mouth when Steve squeezes his dick, “You know artists are good with their hands, Bucky boy.”

Bucky shivers again.

There’s a flurry of activity. Hands everywhere, pulling Steve’s shirt over his head, fingers dipping into random paint colors, smearing and spreading over all of the exposed skin. Bucky’s a complete mess; a wet stain on the front of his green briefs where his cock presses and drips. Paint everywhere, across Bucky’s chest and stomach, on the insides of his thighs, along his neck. He pushes that toned, firm ass back into Steve, biting down hard into his bottom lip, a sweet noise trembling in his throat at the feel of Steve’s bulge against his ass.

Bucky’s a greedy thing, Steve finds. Impatient too. When he’s ready for cock, he just fucking takes it. He turns suddenly and drops to his knees, dragging Steve’s loose sweatpants down his legs— underwear and all. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes, his blue eyes wide, his lips stuck in a smile as he comes face to face with Steve’s cock. He grabs it, working his hand up and down Steve’s shaft, twisting his wrist as he admires it, “Fuck Steve, you’re gonna ruin me baby.”

Steve runs his hand along Bucky’s cheek and jaw, tilting his head up towards him, “Oh sugar,” he purrs, “You look like you can take a big cock.”

The sound that chokes up in Bucky’s throat. _Sugar_. He loves that. 

He hums, low and deep, as he wraps his mouth around Steve’s girth. He peeks up at the blonde through his dark eyelashes as he swallows him, taking him all until he feels him at the back of this throat. Bucky pulls his tongue along the underside of Steve’s dick, the tip teasing and outlining the long vein that runs the length before he puckers his mouth around his tip, sucking gently. He teases Steve’s slit, the salty-sweet drip of precum staining his tongue. 

“God, that mouth is pretty,” Steve murmurs, tits flexing and tightening with each strained, bitten off breath, massive hand cupping Bucky’s head, fingers threading with his soft, brown hair, “But you know that, don’t you, Buck? Hmm? You know that slutty mouth is gorgeous all wrapped around me.”

Bucky is _vibrating_ , right out of his body. He _really_ likes this side of Steve— a side he didn’t even know _existed_. He sucks Steve with fervor, shoving his hand into his underwear to wrap his fingers around his dick, stroking fast. His mouth goes slack around Steve’s cock as a moan slips out, his eyes closing quick. Bucky releases his grasp on his cock and slips his fingers back to his quivering hole, rubbing the rim, pressing gently, wanting— _needing_ — something to fill him. 

“ _Steve—_ ”

“You got lube, baby?”

Bucky’s on his feet in a flash, “What kinda gay man would I be if I didn’t have lube?” he grumbles, feet racing back to his bedroom, leaving Steve chuckling and standing awkwardly. 

His heavy feet _thump, thump, thump_ against the hardwood floor as he bounds into his bedroom, throwing open his nightstand and tossing out random remnants of his life onto his bed before he hits paydirt. Within a minute of leaving Steve standing with his dick out in the living room, Bucky’s back, shoving the tube of water based lube into Steve’s wide chest, now standing in the kitchen. 

The cap pops with a soft click. The wet sound of the lube squeezes out onto Steve’s fingers floods Bucky’s ears, almost deafening. Steve’s wide, naked chest is crushed against Bucky’s back again, but he’s pushing this time; pushing Bucky down, down, down until his face and chest rest against the cool kitchen counter. Steve slips his paw down Bucky’s spine, a light graze of his fingertips, making Bucky shiver and push out a breath of anticipation between his teeth.

Steve taps on the inside of Bucky’s thighs, wanting him open _wider_. Bucky obliges without protest, opening his stance, relaxing his body. He drags in a deep, slow breath, his eyes fluttering shut when Steve’s wet, warm fingers push through his cheeks, along his hole. Another sugared moan thrums in Bucky’s throat when Steve’s fingers butter up his tight hole, sweeping and pressing against the rim until the tips of fingers push inward. 

Bucky yelps at the thickness of just two of Steve’s fingers, “I know honey, I know,” Steve sounds, voice deep and soft, “I gotta open you up baby. Gotta get you ready for me.”

Steve stops pushing once his fingers have disappeared up to his knuckles. He withdraws, then delves back in, this time pushing his fingers all the way inside of Bucky. He twists them, curls them slowly as he starts to pump them, keeping his free hand anchored in the middle of Bucky’s back. 

“You are so tight, baby, so warm,” Steve continues.

Bucky grows loud as he pushes back into Steve’s fingers— greedy. So greedy. But Steve’s fingers are so skilled, so experienced, it’s hard not to want more of them; want them deeper. He grunts when Steve wraps his other long fingers around his cock and starts to stroke him, squeezing gently as his hand drags. Bucky tenses, his head and chest lifting from the cool surface, his muscles clamping down on Steve’s fingers.

He sucks in air, the sound wet and desperate. He moans loud and hot, the octave climbing as his body rocks a little harder, a little faster as Steve’s fingers continue to pump in and out, in and out, in and out, his other hand dragging, lifting, dragging, lifting. A sudden gasp rattles in his chest as a third finger pushes into his wanton hole, followed by a deep, hard thrust of them. 

“That’s right, baby,” Steve murmurs, the words thin, strangled, “That’s so good— you are so good taking my fingers. Does it feel good, honey?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bucky squeaks, face tilted towards the ceiling, eyes slammed shut, mouth hanging, “ _Yes, yes, yes, yes… s’good, Stevie baby._ ”

Bucky’s balls are drawn up tight, so tight that there’s a dull pain in the pit of his stomach. He wants to come, needs to come. He reaches back, grabbing Steve’s wrist quickly before sinking his hand to his sack, pulling gently, his breath quivering as a sharp pang of electricity jolts through him. 

Steve feels it— feels Bucky’s walls quake and he knows he’s close. So he fucks his tight asshole faster, harder; tugs and squeezes on his dick faster; harder while Bucky plays with his balls, pulling and squeezing. Rolling them in his fingers.

“It’s okay darlin’,” Steve says gently, “Come for me, honey. It’s okay. Come on baby.”

Bucky’s a quivering, shaking mess at this point. His body buzzing, thighs and stomach so tight from tensing, the muscles start to burn. Steve has him teetering on the edge, hot tears slipping down his cheeks, muscles clenching around three mammoth fingers. Then, Bucky stills. He chokes, the sound guttural and then comes, rutting his hips hard into the hand still wrapped around his dick. 

Steve pulls his fingers from Bucky but replaces them quickly with the head of his cock. His hands grip Bucky’s sides as he slips into his wet, fucked, loose hole with ease, slips right in until he bottoms out. Steve, half sex drunk, lets his head drop as he breathes hard and deep. He doesn’t move right away, he just lets the heat of Bucky’s insides envelope him, letting it coax him into moving after minutes. 

He pushes his hips, pushing Bucky up the counter, a pathetic whimper escaping the limp man beneath him, “You alright baby? You want more or no?”

Bucky grunts, feeling filthy and warm and used, “ _More,_ ” he chokes, “ _I want more_.”

“Yeah you do,” Steve rasps as he starts to rut into him, “You want all this cock, don’t you sugar?” Bucky sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, whimpering and keening all sweet like, “Look at you, getting all sweet and gooey for me.”

Thick fingers thread in his messy hair and pull without warning and Bucky is _singing_. Body shaky and sweaty, heart thumping, joints burning as Steve fucks him over the counter. Steve skips his fingers up Bucky’s spine, walks them over his shoulder, scrapes them along Bucky’s clean jaw and pushes— pushes the tips right into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky hums, sucking his cum and lube right off of them. 

“I knew you could take a dick, Buck. Got you stuffed all full.”

Steve pulls on his hair again, pulling, and Bucky’s scalp bristles with a sharp pain. He loves it though. All of it. How Steve makes him feel like a whore, but also like a sweet boy— his _favorite_ boy. Steve Rogers might not be a serial killer, but he’s dangerous all the same. 

Within minutes, Steve is trembling. Hips faltering. Bucky is warm all over, his face flushed, cheeks and eyelashes wet and red. Steve’s pace is blistering, his hands wrapped around Bucky’s hips again, nails biting into his skin. Their skin slaps against each other, the sound bouncing off the walls, mixing with the filthy, ragged grunts and moans and gasps and growls that rattle out of both of them. 

“ _God_ , Buck. I’m gonna— _oh, baby_ , I’m gonna,”

Steve can’t even finish the sentence. He ruts hard as he spurts, white hot ribbon after ribbon of his cum filling Bucky right up. Bucky cries out as he comes again, nearly sobbing as the orgasm wrecks him. Steve pulls his limp, wet cock out of Bucky, his cum slipping out right after him. Bucky’s hole pulses, clenching and relaxing over and over as Steve’s cum leaks out of him, the warmth stinging his swollen rim. 

Limbs quickly turn to jelly. Steve falls to the floor, Bucky following, collapsing onto Steve’s chest. Huffing and puffing, they relax into each other's bodies, Steve wrapping his arms around the hunk of man on top of him, Bucky nuzzling into his chest. Steve drags his fingers lightly up and down Bucky’s back as he goes stupid with a post sex haze. 

“Why did it take us so long to do this?”

Steve laughs at Bucky’s question, rolling his head from side to side as he shuts his eyes, “I thought you were a serial killer.”

“No shit?” Bucky asks, eyes wide, a smile on his face, his hair all over his head, “I thought _you_ were a serial killer. _Awwww_.”

Steve clicks his tongue, “We’re a match made in hell then, huh? Guess you should have ruined my art project a lot earlier than what you did.”

“Hey,” Bucky slaps at his chest before he settles his head back down, nuzzling deep, “ _I_ didn’t ruin your painting. Clint Barton did.”

“I’ll send him a thank you card.” Steve yawns, “Come on, let's get you cleaned up. You’re a mess.”

Bucky glances down his body, pink, green, yellow, black, red paint splattered along his thighs and hips and chest and sides, not to mention Steve’s cum leaking out of his weeping asshole and his own cum drying up on the inside of his thigh, “You gonna give me a bath, Rogers?”

“And tuck you in real nice and tight, baby.”

Steve Rogers is an absolute dream Bucky decides.

\---

Steve finishes the semester with all A’s, his scholarship still intact— and a new boyfriend he likes to call motormouth.


End file.
